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On the Road with Mary Oliver

Helene Atwan began her career in publishing at Random House in 1976; she worked at A.A.Knopf, Viking Press, Farrar, Straus and Giroux, and Simon and Schuster, before being named director of Beacon Press in 1995. She served for eight years on the board of PEN-New England and is the Administrator of the Hemingway Foundation/PEN Award.

Several weeks ago, in the midst of National Poetry Month, I made an impulsive decision to drive out from Boston to Syracuse, New York, for a poetry reading. Mary Oliver was scheduled to fly from Logan for that reading, but I thought if I offered to intercept her on the connection from Provincetown and drive, it would give us some precious hours to talk and allow me the rare treat of hearing Mary read—an opportunity one should never pass up. Mary graciously accepted the offer of a ride and, as luck almost never has it, it was a beautiful early spring day when we set out for our five hour road trip.

Photo by Helene Atwan.

As we approached the border of New York State, Mary interrupted our conversation to point out that we were coming up to the road to Austerlitz, a road she had driven so many times on her way to Steepletop, the home of Edna St. Vincent Millay for 25 years and then of her sister, Norma Millay Ellis. I knew that Mary had lived there too, on and off for more than half-a-dozen years after she finished high school and while she attended Vassar. The day was fine and we were making very good time, so I turned to her to ask if we should stop, and she instantly replied Yes!

And so we left the highway for a side-trip visit to Steepletop,
driving the two miles up the long dirt road that skirts the acres of
woodland surrounding the house, stopping to visit the graveyard where
the caretaker, John Pinnie, is buried, parking near the buildings that
currently house the Millay Society
and even cautiously trespassing to peek inside the old farmhouse
itself, where Mary spotted, through the kitchen windows, the dusty porcelain
dishes displayed on a low shelf that she remembered taking down
periodically to rinse off decades ago. How they needed a good rinsing
at that moment. And at that moment, eerily, a phone rang inside the
house: a sound neither of us had heard for a very long time—the
distinct ring of an old rotary dial. We wondered who could possibly be
phoning a house that clearly hadn't been occupied for eons. Mary also
wondered who'd been paying the bills.

Mary Oliver walking in the graveyard at Steepletop. Photo by Helene Atwan.

Mary pointed out the features she remembered so well on the grounds,
now in such sad repair—the pool where they had spent wonderful summer
days, guarded by "the Indian Boy" that Mary's partner, Molly Malone
Cook, had memorialized in her beautiful photos; some painted wooden
gates, once opening from thickets, now standing (and barely standing at
that) alone. I snapped some photos to compare to those of Molly from
another era. Neither my camera—the one that came with my cell phone—nor
my eye can really bear comparison with the work of Molly Malone Cook,
whose photos we published with Mary's text in Our World last fall, but the snap shots bear witness to the deterioration of a once magical place.

Finally, we took the long walk down a mossy path through the thick
woods to the graves of Edna, her husband Eugen Boissevain, Norma and
Charles Ellis, and Edna's mother, Cora Buzzell Millay. Along the path, blooming amid the very early spring
teardrops, were some of Edna's poems—almost stations of the cross, as
Mary observed, and there were at least a dozen of them. We stopped to
read each, though many Mary knew by heart. We returned to the car and
back onto I-90 full of sadness for the neglect of this once beautiful
place and especially the neglect of the academic poetry world for this
great poet. But elated by our visit none-the-less.

The next night, Mary Oliver took the stage to read to about 1,500 people gathered in Syracuse and I settled happily in my second row, just-left-of-center seat, dazzled, as always, by her words.

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On the Road with Mary Oliver

Helene Atwan began her career in publishing at Random House in 1976; she worked at A.A.Knopf, Viking Press, Farrar, Straus and Giroux, and Simon and Schuster, before being named director of Beacon Press in 1995. She served for eight years on the board of PEN-New England and is the Administrator of the Hemingway Foundation/PEN Award.

Several weeks ago, in the midst of National Poetry Month, I made an impulsive decision to drive out from Boston to Syracuse, New York, for a poetry reading. Mary Oliver was scheduled to fly from Logan for that reading, but I thought if I offered to intercept her on the connection from Provincetown and drive, it would give us some precious hours to talk and allow me the rare treat of hearing Mary read—an opportunity one should never pass up. Mary graciously accepted the offer of a ride and, as luck almost never has it, it was a beautiful early spring day when we set out for our five hour road trip.

Photo by Helene Atwan.

As we approached the border of New York State, Mary interrupted our conversation to point out that we were coming up to the road to Austerlitz, a road she had driven so many times on her way to Steepletop, the home of Edna St. Vincent Millay for 25 years and then of her sister, Norma Millay Ellis. I knew that Mary had lived there too, on and off for more than half-a-dozen years after she finished high school and while she attended Vassar. The day was fine and we were making very good time, so I turned to her to ask if we should stop, and she instantly replied Yes!

And so we left the highway for a side-trip visit to Steepletop,
driving the two miles up the long dirt road that skirts the acres of
woodland surrounding the house, stopping to visit the graveyard where
the caretaker, John Pinnie, is buried, parking near the buildings that
currently house the Millay Society
and even cautiously trespassing to peek inside the old farmhouse
itself, where Mary spotted, through the kitchen windows, the dusty porcelain
dishes displayed on a low shelf that she remembered taking down
periodically to rinse off decades ago. How they needed a good rinsing
at that moment. And at that moment, eerily, a phone rang inside the
house: a sound neither of us had heard for a very long time—the
distinct ring of an old rotary dial. We wondered who could possibly be
phoning a house that clearly hadn't been occupied for eons. Mary also
wondered who'd been paying the bills.

Mary Oliver walking in the graveyard at Steepletop. Photo by Helene Atwan.

Mary pointed out the features she remembered so well on the grounds,
now in such sad repair—the pool where they had spent wonderful summer
days, guarded by "the Indian Boy" that Mary's partner, Molly Malone
Cook, had memorialized in her beautiful photos; some painted wooden
gates, once opening from thickets, now standing (and barely standing at
that) alone. I snapped some photos to compare to those of Molly from
another era. Neither my camera—the one that came with my cell phone—nor
my eye can really bear comparison with the work of Molly Malone Cook,
whose photos we published with Mary's text in Our World last fall, but the snap shots bear witness to the deterioration of a once magical place.

Finally, we took the long walk down a mossy path through the thick
woods to the graves of Edna, her husband Eugen Boissevain, Norma and
Charles Ellis, and Edna's mother, Cora Buzzell Millay. Along the path, blooming amid the very early spring
teardrops, were some of Edna's poems—almost stations of the cross, as
Mary observed, and there were at least a dozen of them. We stopped to
read each, though many Mary knew by heart. We returned to the car and
back onto I-90 full of sadness for the neglect of this once beautiful
place and especially the neglect of the academic poetry world for this
great poet. But elated by our visit none-the-less.

The next night, Mary Oliver took the stage to read to about 1,500 people gathered in Syracuse and I settled happily in my second row, just-left-of-center seat, dazzled, as always, by her words.